


Statements

by Lemur710



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Fic, 5+1 Things, Dubious consent (chapter five - see notes), Emotional abuse (Camille), F/M, M/M, Non-graphic self harm (Not Malec), Racist microaggressions (first chapter only), Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8006062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemur710/pseuds/Lemur710
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Magnus was told “I love you,” and the one time he believed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Englishman, 1837

**Author's Note:**

> _Day 157: Still not over Magnus Bane._ ... Based on season 1 of _Shadowhunters_. Not book canon and will likely be AU’ed by TV canon come January 2017. I’ve tried to tiptoe through Magnus’s possible history, since I’m not sure what they’ll reveal or change from the books—and how—in season 2. Roll with me; I will try to make it worthwhile! (Will end with happy Malec because I ship Magnus with comfort and love...most specifically in the form of Alec Lightwood).

Magnus had been on friendly terms with Henry Iverson, the doorman of the Burberry & Market Gentleman’s Club, since almost the first day they met. He’d felt a connection with the dour, freckled old man, and they’d bonded, subtly, over being the only two grown men continually referred to as “boy” by all the club members.

“Good to see you, Mr. Bane,” Henry said, pulling the door open for him. “His lordship arrived not ten minutes ago.” Henry knew quite well what his lordship and Magnus did in the private suite and yet, Magnus had never sensed even a moment’s judgment from him.

“Thank you, Henry.” Magnus smiled as he strode up the steps. “How’s your little one?”

“He’s doing much better now, sir.” The man’s simple, crooked-tooth smile lit up his face. “Thank you. That medicine of yours seemed to do the trick.”

“Ah, glad to hear it.” The medicine had been a potion Magnus created some 200 years ago, of course, but Henry didn’t need to know that. And if he noticed that his son never had a cough ever again, well, Magnus didn’t mind being part of a family legend. He left his overcoat and his top hat with the clerk, then continued down the luxurious hallway to the smaller, secluded rooms.

For the better part of a month on this London holiday, Magnus had been fooling about with Lord Edward Sheasby, ever since they’d met at the high-town cultural salon hosted by Lady Sheasby. Edward considered himself a wit and an intellect, but most of the genius belonged to his wife, who was clever enough to conspire with him to marry and hire her lover as their housemaid. Magnus always did admire creative solutions to unreasonable times. And Edward certainly was vibrant in his own right, as well as angelically attractive and quite skilled with his tongue, both in the parlor and the bedroom, which Magnus admired even more.

“Oh, darling, you’re exquisite,” Edward gasped, breathless, as Magnus climbed back up his lean body later that afternoon. “I love you, you know that?” As a rule, Magnus didn’t believe anything said during sex, but it was pleasant to hear in Edward’s crisp accent. “Honestly,” he continued, “I feel sorry for anyone who hasn’t had you.” He kissed Magnus then grinned against his lips. “But not sorry enough to give them the chance.”

Edward climbed off the bed and strolled naked across the room to pour them more wine. Magnus laid back against the pillows and watched him. Everything Edward ever said was a gilded bit of nothing, and Magnus didn’t love him. But it was nice to pretend sometimes.

Once a week, the club filled with cigar smoke and the gray-haired old guard in silk waistcoats, a combined scent that meant _money_. Magnus sat at tables with dukes and viscounts, drank excellent brandy, played cards, laughed loud, and gambled with all the arrogance of an Englishman. And though Magnus didn’t like hiding anything about himself, he couldn’t deny the sensual thrill of touching Edward with nothing but his eyes during the course of an evening, looking across a crowded room and seeing the heat in his gaze.

They’d often socialize separately on these weekly Whist and Whiskey nights (though most of the men preferred cribbage and brandy), playing cards or talking politics with other club members. All the while, they’d seek each other out, exchanging glances and heavy looks, puffing provocatively on cigars between their lips. Once, an acquaintance actually led Magnus across the room, telling him he _simply must_ meet Lord Edward Sheasby. Mouths quirking, they’d clasped hands in greeting and pretended not to know one another at all, certainly not well enough to have been rutting against a wall an hour ago. Magnus liked it. It felt like their own clever little joke they played on all these self-righteous, oblivious men.

But he didn’t see that when he looked over at Edward this particular night. Instead, he saw hollow eyes, and the flush of drunkenness on his soft cheeks—and beside him, the cause. From what Edward had told him, his father only attended Whist and Whiskey perhaps twice a year. He said it in a tone one might use for a plague of locusts, and Magnus knew a fragile, frightened son when he saw one.

He tried to focus on his cards, but continually, his attention drifted to the handsome man in the corner and the hard set of his jaw. When he glanced up between hands and saw Edward turn his back, shoulders rigid as he struggled to light a cigar, Magnus stood. “Excuse me,” he told the gathering of barons and playboys. “I’ll sit this one out.”

It was against the unspoken rules of their little game, but he crossed the room smoothly, smiling genteelly and revealing none of the urgency in his step, until he came to stand by Edward. “Are you all right?” he asked lowly, concerned.

Edward looked up at him then, expression brightening in a way that made a frisson of alarm skitter down Magnus’s spine. Without a word, Edward hooked his arm through his and turned them both. “Oh, Father, have you met Magnus?” he asked airily.

Magnus found himself forced face-to-face with the Duke of Easternearney, a stout, little man with robust gray mutton chops and a permanent frown etched into his cheeks. He seemed to have a glower reserved entirely for his eldest son. One he generously shared with Magnus, withering and sharp, as he no doubt judged his high-fashion flair and color. “What sort of statement are you trying to make, boy?”

“My own, always,” Magnus answered with a sway of his shoulders.

“Isn’t he lovely?” Edward patted Magnus on the cheek like a prized pony. “The West can claim many things, but we can’t hold a candle to the exotic beauties of the East.” His arm slid possessively around Magnus’s waist, hand low on his back, too low for propriety, body too close to be misinterpreted. A few of the old gents in the duke’s circle cleared their throats or became suddenly deeply interested in their brandy glasses. The duke’s face grew red beneath his mutton chops, as though he would scream were they not in public. Magnus felt much the same: Were the room not so crowded, he might have opened a portal and fled. Instead, Magnus stood, struck silent in anger and hurt. Even if he weren't aware, Edward's every touch guaranteed Magnus would be nothing but "Lord Sheasby's boy" to all the members of the Burberry & Market. 

“This is my father, Magnus, dear,” Edward cooed. “Magnus speaks six languages, you know, Father. Or was it seven?”

Magnus certainly had no great love for domineering fathers, but it was ego and irritation that held his tongue. Sighing, he righted his shoulders, head high as he turned his gaze to each of the lords, dukes, and viscounts one by one, embracing the fact that he was a good deal taller than many of them. “Good evening, sirs. Do enjoy your brandies,” he said, smooth and smiling, then strode away. Edward followed him, and Magnus suspected, in his own wounded pride, he was making a bigger scene than the one Edward had attempted.

Edward caught up to him at the coat check, where Magnus noted Henry Iverson’s attention on them from the door. “What are you doing? You’re embarrassing me.”

“Oh, am I?” Magnus didn’t drop the glamour hiding his more intimidating eyes, but it was a near thing. How would his young lordship react, he wondered, if he knew his exotic plaything from the Orient could turn him inside out with a snap? Instead of finding out, Magnus accepted his overcoat and top hat from the clerk. “Be careful who you trot out like a show horse, Edward.”

Edward grabbed Magnus’s hand, expression softening. “Please stay, darling. We have to show that old goat I’m not afraid of him.” 

Magnus glanced over, noticing that all the attention in the parlor was on them. Edward continued to make it worse and remained naively unaware. Magnus looked at his pale blue eyes, extricated his hand from his grasp, and felt every single year of their great age gap. “I assure you, you can do that on your own." He smiled, wishing he could make it warmer, but his chest felt so cold and tired. “Good luck,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Magnus, wait.” Magnus turned back. Edward stared at him, blue eyes wide. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked. 

Magnus considered it, let his eyes roam over Edward’s delicate features, his bow lips and angled jaw. But something of his angelic shine was gone. Everything Edward ever said was gilded nothing, and Magnus knew he didn’t love him. But he had thought, at the very least, that Edward respected him.

He shook his head. What items he'd left in their suite had already been moved to his flat with a wave of his hand. “Goodbye, Edward,” he said, and he felt certain his heart was the heavier one at the farewell. It had been barely a month and Edward was young; he would move on quickly.

Magnus managed a warmer smile, then turned and walked out the door Henry held open for him. He paused at the top of the steps in the chill night air. London always smelled foul in a charming sort of way. Manure, mankind, and the breeze off the Thames mixed to create a distinctive stench that traveled on the cool currents of blustery days and made the heart smile. Magnus breathed in deeply.

“Help you with your coat, sir?” Henry asked, pulling him from the silence.

“Yes, thank you.” Magnus handed it to him and turned his back as the man slid the fine fabric onto his shoulders. He spared a glance and saw through the etched glass doors as Edward walked back into the parlor like a man bound for the gallows. Guilt twisted in Magnus’s stomach. 

“Don't you worry,” the doorman said softly. “He'll be all right. In the end, they protect their own.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Magnus tugged on his lapels and turned to face Henry, fastening a few of the sturdy buttons against the biting wind. “I cannot say I have the same luxury.” Top hat in his hands, he regarded the kind, freckled face before him. “I’m afraid this is it for me at the Burberry & Market, Henry. Give my best to your family.”

“I’ll miss seeing you, Mr. Bane.” 

Magnus gave him a sad smile. “Likewise, Mr. Iverson,” he said, then set his hat neatly on his head, and strolled out into the London night.


	2. The Vampire, 2015

A Seelie client requested they meet at a diner one Sunday morning—something about enjoying the light and frivolous lives of mundanes. Magnus thought little of it, but dressed to blend in, as much as he could tolerate. As the host lead him to his seat, Magnus saw the clues one by one: pink tulips and daisies, pastel-packaged presents on a few of the tables, a preponderance of flawed diamonds in ghastly heart-shaped settings on the patrons.

He ordered coffee and waited for his client, studiously reading the menu.

“More? Really? Oh, you are so sweet!”

Magnus carefully raised his eyes from list of gourmet sandwiches. At the booth, a round-cheeked woman in a hijab gazed tenderly at a bearded man, presumably her husband, as he handed her a small, wrapped box. Magnus suspected it would be a flawed diamond in a ghastly heart-shaped setting. A little boy sat grinning at her side, and on her lap, she held a squirming baby—who snagged a greeting card from the table and threw it to the floor where it wedged itself against the heel of Magnus’s boot.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman said.

Magnus bent to get it. “That’s all right,” he said, grabbing the card from beneath his foot. Red letters stating, “There’s nothing greater than a Mother’s Love” curled in a sweeping font across the soft pink cardstock. Magnus stared at it, struck silent. His heart pounded.

Magnus often traveled in May. It was an excellent season in a large part of the world; Ireland and Bahrain had always proved particularly charming. Quite suddenly, he remembered why he’d established that unofficial tradition.

“Thank you,” the woman said, and she took the card from his hand. Magnus looked up at her. Her brown eyes sparkled, crow’s feet warming her smile. She was soft and indescribably beautiful. In her arms, the baby gave him a happy, toothless grin.

The corner of Magnus’s mouth lifted in a broken, lopsided smile. “You have a good arm there, little one,” he said. Then he turned away, leaving the family to their celebration. He stared at the menu, read about selections featuring avocado and brioche, but he’d lost any appetite he had.

After his meeting, he returned to his private office at Pandemonium and buried himself in banal tasks that needed doing. Outside the door, the club thrummed to life with music and shouted conversation. The bass pounded through his walls, vibrating the various trinkets and artifacts—and the New York liquor license Detective Garroway had insisted he obtain through legal means—hanging on the wall. He could easily snap for silence, but he wanted the distraction. He’d even welcome a screeching guitar to dull his thoughts.

Magnus looked at files in his hands, plain mundane sheets of paper and ink, and he hated, _hated_ , how his memory worked. He’d already forgotten the touch of lovers he’d had last week, but he could not, could never, no matter how many mountains he climbed, how many lips he kissed, how many battles he forgot, he could never forget the feel of his mother’s hug. His forehead pressed to her neck, her warm skin and the subtle vibration of her pulse. He could still feel her breath in his hair and it had been _400 years_.

The tears came no matter how he fought them, and Magnus threw the file at the wall, the airy flutter of papers unsatisfying when he wanted to rip and tear. He slid to his knees and wept, the memory her affectionate tutting like a telltale heartbeat driving him mad.

But he couldn’t part with it either. He worked time and again with memory demons, creatures who could pluck that thread from his consciousness like a bit of bad stitching marring the whole, but he couldn’t do it. He didn’t know who he was if he’d not had to piece together his self-worth alone, scrap by battered scrap. He didn’t know how much of _Magnus Bane_ was that boy whose mother hated and feared him.

The bare floor was cool against his forehead. His own panted, crying breaths gusted hotly back to him, and the fingers he gripped in his hair pulled hard enough to sting. His tears felt heavy and searing, like magma on his skin, as if his insides were always burning. And maybe they were. 

The DJ shifted the track, the beat changing, and Magnus knew that outside that door where the music rose high there danced a sea of orphans. Others who had experienced pain, had grown up alone, who had simply found a way to go on without feeling the love of family. He knew he could share with one of them. He could listen to them tell him they understood, that it was hard, that he had their sympathy. But he didn’t want any of it. He wanted to boil away from the inside, hold that pain close, and share it with no one; let it fester, flame, and be untouched, unhealed. Because however nasty it was, it was his, his _mother_ , and he didn’t want it to become so ordinary, so small, as to be _understood_.

His tears fell until they dried up, or his insides ran out, and the blistering ache in his chest hardened into a stone weighting him down. Magnus lay on his side, curled around his hurting heart on the floor. 

No single thought calmed him but instead a strange, drifting chain of them: That he’d never tasted haggis and hadn’t read _The Lord of the Rings_ , that he’d already gotten Ragnor’s birthday present and still didn’t know what creatures lived at the bottom of the sea, that he wanted to visit Mars someday and maybe get a bird, that he’d put on a brand new pair of boots that morning, that he liked this song and should compliment the new DJ.

He rolled to his back and stared at the plain, beige ceiling. With a curl of his wrist, he turned its bland color bright blue and transformed the light fixture, creating a crystal chandelier that sent golden light dancing all over the walls. With a snap, he tidied the scattered papers back into their file.

Soul still crushed to the ground, Magnus Bane climbed to his feet and wiped his cheeks. His fingers came away smeared dark with his makeup. Clearing it off and reapplying it by hand centered him, steadied him, and then the High Warlock of Brooklyn left his office to mingle with his clientele.

“You’re Magnus Bane!” a young woman shouted over the music at him, almost as soon as he stepped out the door. Well, she appeared to be a young woman, spritely and energetic with her pigtails swinging. Magnus hoped she was just a highly adaptable old vampire rather than freshly made; he didn’t need a bunch of Shadowhunters invading, investigating, and generally bringing down everyone’s good mood.

“I _love_ you!” She grinned at him. The darting electric lights caught the neon pink and green makeup smeared on her cheeks. “You’re so amazing!”

Magnus returned her smile smoothly. “Guilty as charged, my dear,” he said, then gave her a wink and waded deeper into the pulsing crowd.


	3. The Monk, 1753

To get to the Monastery of Varlaam, Magnus rode in a basket up the 1,500-foot cliff wall, his weight hauled upward by the monks themselves with a giant pulley at the top. When first arranging this visit by letter, the basket had seemed his best option—many of the other monasteries were accessible only by rope ladders that were replaced “when the Lord let them break.” With a thought to his heritage, Magnus decided he’d rather _not_ put his life in the hands of a heavenly host.

He’d been charmed by the sights of Meteora on a visit to Greece a few years earlier, the way the buildings seemed to grow out of the heaping rocks that loomed across the landscape like great leviathans. They were temples built on the clouds, the locals said, and some part of Magnus always yearned for ascension. He hoped the long, cool days of solitude would allow him time to finally commit his more unique potions to print before he forgot all the nuances.

But even by basket, the journey upward was jarring and frightening as, foot by jerking foot, he rose into the sky, watched the ground fall away beneath him, and wondered at the durability of both rope and the muscles of monks.

Finally reaching the peak, he climbed, ungainly and relieved, from the basket with his small satchel of belongings slung across his body. An old monk named Giorgos met him first, as he’d not been manning the pulley. Beard and skin grayed by time, the man walked with his shoulders hunched, arms clutched across himself in his black robes, as if trying to take up as little space in the world as possible. Magnus estimated he must be in his 70s, though he always had a bit of difficulty discerning mortals’ ages once they turned so gray. The monks welcomed him, showed him his sparse quarters, and then left him alone. They didn’t socialize with one another, and certainly had no intention of socializing with a stranger. 

Except Giorgos. He enjoyed speaking Latin with Magnus, the only language they had in common (Magnus never quite got his tongue around conversational Greek), and they often shared a glass of wine together before retiring for the night—Magnus to his writings and Giorgos to his prayers. Giorgos had been atop the mountain since his late teens, and when his old eyes would linger over Magnus’s arms and his thighs, Magnus suspected he knew why. 

And he began to hate the sight of him. He loathed the sound of the old man’s shallow breaths, like he dared not even take his share of air itself. A wretch living his life like an apology, stomach gnawing on itself because he did not deserve food, isolated at the top of a mountain because he did not deserve friends. He was what Magnus could have been, might have been—should have been, according to some. With skeletal shoulders stooped, withered arms locked like iron bars around his own heart, maybe then Magnus would be called a “good warlock.” Maybe then they’d say he’d overcome the misfortune of his nature, that he’d earned their forgiveness for existing. Maybe they’d say his mother had raised him right.

The world called him decadent, indecent, vulgar, arrogant; repulsed by his confidence because it demanded his shame; and unreasonably, irrationally, he looked at Giorgos and thought, _How_ dare _you? How dare you hide on this mountain talking only to God while I face all this hatred alone?_

So each evening, he drank the excellent wine and told Giorgos stories of his travels, of other places and other cultures where love wasn’t so narrowly defined, where desire wasn’t shamed. He told elaborate, exaggerated truths about banquet tables laden with every delicacy the tongue could taste, about sensual passion so exquisite one couldn’t help but cry during release, and he watched with an ugly pleasure as Giorgos’s gray eyes widened and his breathing sped.

Then alone, long after the others had gone to sleep, Magnus would lay on the hard stone of the courtyard and stare into the night sky. On clear nights, the scattered colors of the Milky Way painted the black with ivories, blues, and greens, and he imagined he could see beyond this world and its confines. He wondered what stars had been there when he’d first looked up as a boy, how many stars had known his mother, how many he would see die like he’d seen her die, and how many new ones he would live to see born. He wondered how cursed he could really be if he could treasure beauty like this. He looked up and wondered if he’d be forgiven.

One night, Giorgos laid out with him, far too late for his usual nightly prayers. Magnus felt when he shifted just enough for their little fingers to touch and he heard the old monk’s sharp inhale at the contact.

Giorgos snuck into his room that night, startling him from sleep. In the moonlight from his window, Magnus could see the sweat coating the man’s wrinkled face and blood smearing his shriveled hands. The fabric of his robe stuck wetly to the skin of his back.

“What have you done to yourself?” Magnus asked, alarmed, standing from his bunk as Giorgos rushed close to him.

“I love you,” he whispered feverishly. Eyes wide and wild, he pressed a wet, too-hard kiss to Magnus’s lips. 

Magnus pulled his face away and gripped the man’s arms, forcing distance between them. “Stop, stop,” he said, as Giorgos continued to lunge at him, crazed and pitiful. He looked into the man’s tearful eyes, and he didn’t know why they were different.

He didn’t know what he had inside that kept him from becoming this person because it wasn’t magic, it wasn’t anything that Magnus was that Giorgos couldn’t have been and just wasn’t. He suddenly wished it was within his power to transfer that elusive ability, that trait—stubbornness, arrogance, endurance—that let him feel the hatred and still lift his chin. That let him remember the warmth of his mother and the revulsion in her eyes, and somehow, somehow, not collapse forever. Giorgos’s arms felt fragile in his hands, and Magnus didn’t know why he was stronger, but whatever it was, it wasn’t the old man’s fault. 

He crushed Giorgos to him in a hug, careful of his wounded back. _You don’t love me, dear boy,_ he thought. _You just desperately want to fuck me, and you’ve never been free to learn the difference._

“You don’t have to be ashamed,” he said instead, lowering them to his narrow bunk. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Please believe that.”

Tired and in pain, the frail monk cried in his embrace, and Magnus wondered if this would be the only time in his one, short life that Giorgos would feel the warmth of another man. Guilt twisted sharply in his gut. Hope can be a stinging, biting, killing thing, and he had set it loose.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Magnus said, and began repeating the sentiment like a prayer as he rocked him in his arms. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t have to be ashamed. Please don’t feel shame. I promise, there’s nothing wrong with you. I promise.”


	4. The Shadowhunter, 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where the Mature warning really kicks in, y'all. Be advised.

Magnus felt melted into the couch, soft and warm like hot wax, as he and Alec kissed. Alec’s long fingers held his jaw gently, his perfect lips moving against his. The candles burning on the coffee table beside them sputtered lowly, audible now that the music had stopped. Magnus could snap and start it again, but he was enjoying the sound of Alec’s breath, the creak of the couch as their bodies shifted closer.

Alec pulled away only enough to kiss Magnus’s neck, tilting his head up to press his mouth hotly against the hinge of his jaw, and Magnus shuddered as heat spread through him. “Will you fuck me tonight?” Alec asked. 

The words brushed soft against Magnus’s ear and he blinked in surprise, his heart stuttering. “Is that what you want to do tonight?” he answered thickly. He slid his hand over the chorded muscles of Alec’s arm, soft black over steel.

“Well, it wasn’t a rhetorical question, Magnus.” Alec breathed a laugh against his skin, and that’s when Magnus knew he really felt ready.

He smiled as Alec’s fingers slid into his hair at the back of his head. “Give me a moment to think.”

“Okay.”

“Done thinking. Yes, I will.”

Alec laughed again, light and happy, and Magnus stood up, took his hand and tugged him toward his bedroom and his large, comfortable bed. He was determined to make every moment, every new sensation, as safe and blissful as Alec deserved. As safe and blissful as some of his own had not been.

Magnus set the lights low, bright enough to see each other and enjoy every sight, but dim enough for the refuge afforded by the mask of night. And he stayed close, chest to chest, generous with his lips against Alec’s, so he could watch his expression for discomfort and talk him through new feelings as he helped his body relax. He stayed close so Alec could burrow his face into Magnus’s shoulder and neck when he felt shy or when a touch made him feel particularly vulnerable. But Alec used it more for kissing him, licking his skin, moaning into his ear when something felt good, which was even better. And he laughed more, a bright and airy sound, when Magnus knocked over the lamp with his elbow, when he got a cramp in his foot and they had to pause, when Magnus was just being too, too serious.

“Be careful down there,” Alec said, breathless, eyebrow quirking. “I’ve seen what your hands can do.”

“Oh, my dear.” Magnus smirked wickedly, enjoying Alec’s chuckling gasp when he moved his fingers. “You have no idea what my hands can do.” Alec tipped his head back as he laughed, like he expected that answer and had wanted to hear it. He bit his bottom lip on a smile and closed his eyes.

“How should we—how do you want me?” Alec panted, a few moments later. 

Magnus let his gaze rise slowly, traveling up the hard ridges of Alec’s abdomen, wet with sweat. “How do you want to be had?” he asked. “I get the feeling you’ve been thinking about this, so tell me, Alexander...” He let his eyes travel further north, finally meeting Alec’s. “How have you imagined us?”

Alec stared up at him with a dazed, mesmerized look on his face that made Magnus wonder if he’d lost control of his magic and worked some sort of charm. But he knew he hadn’t. Alec just looked at him like that sometimes.

“I love you,” Alec whispered suddenly, and gripped Magnus’s face, taking his mouth with a kiss that was hot, wet, and hungry, tongue flitting against his top lip and sending sparks down to his toes. He curled a leg around Magnus’s hip, pulling his body close, and Magnus nearly forgot he wanted to let Alec choose how they did this. He squeezed the hard muscle of Alec’s shoulder as they kissed and wanted to fuck him _so very badly._

Fortunately, Alec quickly spread a calloused palm across Magnus’s chest and shoved him away, guiding him to the bed. Sheets smooth and skin-warm against his back, Magnus’s breath caught in his throat as Alec sat up and straddled him, settling his weight on his thighs.

“This okay?” he asked shyly, his tall body looming over Magnus. “Am I too heavy?”

“No, you’re—you look...” Magnus couldn’t think of an adjective sufficient to describe all that hard, rune-marked muscle; the broad, hairy chest; the fact that it was _Alec_ naked and aroused on top of him; that Alec had _imagined_ them together like this. The lust-struck expression on his face seemed to get his point across, however. Alec spread his knees wider, a small, incongruously boyish smile tilting on his lips. This is where it paid off, Magnus supposed, that he’d never been shy about letting Alec know how attractive he found him.

“You like this?” Alec asked, sincerely, without guile, color high on his cheeks. A soldier, a new lover, learning how best to use his body for the task.

“More than I have words to say,” Magnus breathed.

As Alec sank down, Magnus recalled suddenly the dark and haunted look on his face that first day they’d met, holding hands to contain a memory demon, how ashamed and horrified he’d been to have his feelings revealed. He looked now to the man riding him, his desire open and unencumbered, lips parted and gasping. He watched the joining of their bodies and hoped he’d played some part in this glorious transformation.

Alec reached down to clutch one of Magnus’s hands gripped on his own rocking hips and held tight. Magnus smiled and understood. 

His breathing still ragged, the sweat on his skin still warm, Alec collapsed against him, sated and wrecked. He pressed small, sweet kisses against Magnus’s shoulder, as if feelings still bubbled out of him and needed physical release. Magnus wanted to tell him about oxytocin, about the intense emotion it was common to feel during such an intimate experience, but instead he stroked Alec’s sweaty hair and held him close as their adrenaline settled and sank, as slowly, Alec’s body cooled beside him.

“Are you all right?” Magnus asked, gently, into the dim room.

“Yeah... I liked that,” he admitted, voice quiet and small, but Magnus knew how frighteningly big it could feel to say it out loud.

“Me too,” he said sincerely, his hand sliding along Alec’s slick back, the hot nape of his neck. “Though I might suggest a shower before too long.”

“Yeah,” Alec said, but snuggled closer instead, clinging. “In a second. If you can wait.”

“For you? Forever,” Magnus said, then swallowed against the sob forming in his throat. He had been so focused on Alec, the tears suddenly wetting his eyes startled him, and he’d not noticed the roaring ache in his chest until it felt like it might consume him. He looked up at the dark ceiling and remembered the glittering Milky Way in the sky over Meteora.

He wanted to say it back. The words were there, in his mouth, on his tongue. He _felt them_ through every part of him, in every thundering beat of his heart. But Alec was so young, so new to all of this, he had spoken at the height of passion, and it wouldn’t be right, it wouldn’t be fair, it was too much. An exchange of “I love yous” could so easily feel like a vow, a promise, a covenant, and he desperately, so desperately—maybe more than anything—wanted Alec to feel _free._

Thankful for the night and Alec’s closed eyes, Magnus held him tight, breathed out slowly to release the tightness in his throat, and let his tears slide to the pillow, untouched. _I love you, too,_ he thought madly, wildly. _I love you, my dear boy, I love you, I love you more than I ever knew I could love anyone, it scares me how much I love you, I love you…_


	5. Camille, 1893

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotionally abusive relationship elements in this chapter, as well as dubious consent. See end notes for context and details.

Magnus stood in the shadows behind the seated guests, his thoughts and his heart thousands of miles away from this pavilion and this city. The chiming music drifted into his ears, percussive and distinctive; beautiful, memorable, painful. The gamelan musicians seated at their shining instruments on stage looked like men he’d known, men he could barely remember, men from hundreds of years ago. Perhaps he recognized the faces of their great-great grandparents, maybe he’d known their ancestors. A young woman in green and gold, black hair braided down her back, sat with them, joining their gentle rhythm with song.

He felt the air shift just slightly as a familiar presence leaned against the wall beside him. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to pass up a world’s fair.”

“Well, since we stumbled into that monstrosity in Paris, it just seems like tradition now,” Ragnor replied, a dapper hat concealing his horns. His shoulder was warm against Magnus’s as they watched the stage through the silhouettes of Americans who blithely came and went.

“How’d you know where to find me?”

“I saw Camille just as I was leaving the Swedish Restaurant. She said you’d been quite taken with a performance in here.”

Magnus knew Camille hadn’t said it that kindly. She’d sat with him for a few minutes before leaving to explore more exhibits, and she openly shared her irritation at his decision to stay. It hadn’t felt like a decision; he felt like he couldn’t leave. “The announcer said it’s the first time this music has ever been played in this country.” Magnus couldn’t tell if the ache in his chest was longing or grief. 

“It’s beautiful,” Ragnor said, sincerely. “Has it changed much?”

“Yes. But it’s the same, too.”

Magnus stared at the stage where the woman closed her eyes, feeling the song, her voice climbing through words in a language Magnus hadn’t let himself think about for a long time.

“Lovely girl,” Ragnor noted.

Magnus let his gaze travel over her smooth, golden skin, and the slope of her narrow shoulders. She couldn’t be much older than his mother had been when she’d died, he realized. How terrifying and overwhelming Magnus must have been for a woman who was barely more than a girl. In that moment, he couldn’t find the anger and blame he often held close. He felt only pity and grief. “She's so young,” he said. She must have been so scared.

The beat trembled into a harmonious clatter, the striking mallets a blur in the hands of men with skin like Magnus’s, with dark hair and dark eyes like his, in clothes and colors he knew, playing songs he’d never heard but that somehow strummed at the rhythm of his heartbeat. When it came to an arcing, punctuated stop, a moment of silence descended and then cheery applause rose from the crowd. Ragnor clapped, but Magnus couldn’t make himself move. He watched as the musicians stood and bowed.

He turned to Ragnor, nodding him toward the exit where other visitors had already begun to queue. “How was the Swedish Restaurant?” he asked.

“I’ve confirmed that don’t like lingonberry.”

“Oh, my dear little cabbage,” Magnus said, looping his arm through Ragnor’s, “you don’t like anything.” 

Ragnor harrumphed, but didn’t deny it. Magnus had missed him so very much.

They reunited with Camille in the New South Wales pavilion, and then strolled through the fair taking in the sights and trying new foods until nightfall when they holed up in one of the little underground clubs that had sprung up in the streets around the fairgrounds. Rowdy out-of-towners, as well as a host of Downworlders, drank, sang, and danced. Seated beside Ragnor on a ratty divan shoved against the wall, Magnus let his weight sag against his friend, and snagged his cocktail for a sip. “Mm, that’s good.”

Ragnor grunted. “Too many olives.”

Magnus smiled and looked out across the riotous mass of bodies swinging to the beat, their feet stamping on the club’s wood floor. Camille stood out, always, in every way. The newspapers every day decried the vulgarity of the belly dancers at the fair, so of course, Camille and Magnus had stopped at nothing until she had a belly dancing costume of her own. The oil lamps shimmered across her red dress, its swaying fringe and scandalous bare midriff. Her glossy hair, curled and perfect, framed those red lips and flashing eyes. Camille carried at her core the shameless confidence Magnus forged with layers of silk and satin, and he adored it. She was everything he wanted to be, the way she leapt at her immortal life without all of Magnus’s worry and overthinking.

A stylish fellow in a gray sack coat stepped close and gripped her hands, joining the vigorous twist of her hips. Camille’s head tipped back and she laughed as the man leaned in to whisper in her ear. As she listened, her gaze slid slick and hot toward Magnus and he quickly looked away, pretending not to notice. He waved his hand for the waiter with the cocktails, and flatly met Ragnor’s narrowed, evaluating gaze.

“I like them salty,” he said, taking the olive-laden drink from the man’s tray.

“Do you now? You didn’t use to,” Ragnor replied.

“That’s not true.” Magnus slipped a green olive in his mouth, tugging it off the skewer with his teeth. “I’ve always had varied and discerning taste in alcohol.”

“Yes, but you have a tendency to become devoted to a single cocktail to an almost pathetic degree. On and on for weeks and months and years, your letters will be nothing but mojito this and mojito that, and if anyone else ever dared to touch your mojito—”

“Your metaphor is weaker than this vermouth, Ragnor. Say what you mean.” The olive scraped dryly down Magnus’s throat when he swallowed.

“You have the most slavishly monogamous heart I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, Magnus,” Ragnor said, turning toward him even as Magnus stared down at his drink. “The stories I’ve been hearing lately—”

“Are you judging my activities, old friend? Because you hardly have the moral high ground.”

Ragnor snorted. “Oh, never insult me so much as to give me the moral high ground,” he said. “I couldn’t care less about your activities, you silly man. Taste all the cocktails you desire. I’m rather more concerned about your constitution. You’re not built for loving more than one person at a time, and we both know it.”

“Monogamy isn’t natural,” Magnus said. The olives gazed up at him like green eyes in the cloudy vermouth. “Certainly not for an immortal.”

Ragnor’s gaze felt heavy. Magnus refused to meet it. “Those don’t sound like your words,” Ragnor said. 

“She’s right. In the past, I’ve been too…romantic about my situation. It’s irrational. I need to be more practical.”

“Magnus Bane being practical,” Ragnor mused, downing the last of his cocktail with a wince. “And here I thought this century couldn’t get any duller.” He let out a long sigh.

“Not impressed by Mr. Ferris's wheel, or the electricity? You’ve seen the newest wonders of the world all on an afternoon stroll today.”

Ragnor grunted. “A death trap and a fire hazard.” 

Magnus turned his drink in his hands. “She challenges me to be what I should be,” he continued, though he squared his shoulders; he shouldn’t have to defend his choices to anyone, let alone Ragnor. “We’re going to live forever. I can’t keep walking through life like an open wound.”

“I agree. But I suppose I make a distinction between healing and amputation.”

“Oh, good heavens, go back to your cocktail metaphor. I’m eating.”

“No, I’m done with that one. I like this one better, and olives aren’t food.” Ragnor shifted on the seat, gesturing with his empty glass. “It’s like a young soldier who’s taken a musket ball to the leg, bones torn asunder. So the surgeons hurry and cut-cut-cut, off with the leg because they’re at war and there’s no time. But given time and proper care, the leg might have been saved! The soldier may have had a limp, yes, scars from his time at war, but what’s a limp in a long, happy life? You, my friend, have nothing but time. And still you cut-cut-cut?”

“I take it you enjoyed that gallery of Civil War photographs.”

“You know, I really did,” Ragnor said, much more brightly. “What a poetic and dramatic moment in American history. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of it.”

“Well, we were busy.”

“Hm, I suppose so.”

“There are collections of soldiers’ letters from the battlefield,” Magnus said. “We should find you a book.”

“I’d like that very much.”

Camille appeared suddenly before them, her supernatural speed allowing her to be draped alluringly across Magnus before he’d registered her presence. Instantly, he felt enveloped by the intoxicating mix of fate and pheromones that always burned between them. “Come dance with me, my love,” she whispered against his lips, and he wanted to kiss her, always wanted to kiss her.

“Anything for you,” he breathed.

She stood languidly from his lap, like a water creature reforming, pulling him to his feet. Only then did her smoky eyes shift to the other person still relaxed on the divan. “I must say, Ragnor, I do admire your commitment to the cravat.”

“Yes, indeed,” Ragnor said, with a smooth nod of his horned head. “I hold tight to what suits me.” 

She smiled thinly, and Magnus saw its cruelty, but couldn’t help but find it beautiful, too. Her eyes glittered like obsidian. She cocked her head, inspecting Ragnor as if he were a curious piece of art, then turned and walked back to the sack-coated pretty boy. And he was very pretty, Magnus noted now, dark hair and striking eyes; Camille knew his type. On these nights when Magnus wasn’t enough for her, she always chose someone he’d like. That’s something Ragnor wouldn’t understand. One had to know Camille to recognize her love. He started after her, as if pulled by a string.

Ragnor grabbed his arm to stop him. “Bid me farewell before you...begin your activities,” he said, standing.

Magnus turned back to him, blinking away the fog of Camille in his thoughts. “You’re leaving?”

“Too many people for my comfort, and I absolutely do not share this bartender’s enthusiasm for brine.”

“Very well. Brunch tomorrow? The Japanese Tea House is quite fine. Not terribly authentic, but this _is_ Chicago. I count it a triumph merely for the lack of cows.”

“No, I think I’ve had my fill. I’ll be heading to England. Maybe Burma.”

“To the middle of nowhere, of course.” Magnus smirked. “Every day closer to the misanthropic recluse you’ve always longed to be.”

Ragnor scowled, but accepted Magnus’s embrace. “Keep talking like that and see if I ever invite you to my charming country lair.” He thumped him on the back, squeezing him tight. When he pulled back, he kept a hand on Magnus’s shoulder. “I feel like I’m at your funeral, my old friend.”

Magnus didn’t understand what he meant, didn’t understand the mournful look on his face. “You imagine there would be drinking and dancing at my funeral?” 

Ragnor’s mouth quirked in a fond, sad smile. “I imagine you’d require it.” Then, he patted Magnus on the cheek and turned, winding his way through the crowded club to the exit. Idly, Magnus wondered when he’d see him again.

He joined Camille and the pretty young man on the dance floor, and she quickly urged them all back to their hotel room for the night. It felt wrong, his lips against any but Camille’s. It felt like a betrayal of their whispered “I love yous,” of the vow he felt in his heart. But it was what she wanted, so when he kissed the young man, pressed their bodies hotly together, it was for her. He listened for her caught breaths and gasps as much as the man’s, worked for her pleasure even more than his. Magnus reached out to clutch Camille’s hand, needing some connection that felt caring more than carnal. The ache in him settled at the feel of her skin. 

“You can let me go, Magnus,” she said with a snorted laugh. “I’m right here.” She twisted her hand from his and instead laid her body alongside the stranger’s, stroking his hair. The man turned to her, blue eyes dilated black with desire. “We have such a handsome guest and you still can’t let me go. What a needy, clinging child you must have been to your poor mother.”

The words were like ice water down Magnus’s back. He felt shaky as he sat back on his heels, uncomfortably aware of the strong legs stretched out on the mattress beneath him. He cast a look at her, wanting it to be angry and cutting like hers could be, but he knew he just looked wounded— _a pitiful kitten_ , she’d called him once—as he climbed off the bed.

“Oh, my bleeding heart,” she said, sighing. “Come back. It was a joke.” She lay sprawled on the bed, hair beautifully messed, red fringe exposing her slim thighs. The man beside her glanced between them, confused, his clothing rumpled, buttons at his neck and waist undone. Each of them a provocative, alluring sight, and yet Magnus’s passion felt cold.

Finally, Camille stood and slid the clothes from her body. The fringed fabric dropped heavily to the floor, revealing her skin in all its pale, stunning glory. The man on the bed rose to his elbows, gazing, enraptured, and Magnus felt ill. But Camille’s steps brought her closer to _him_ , she slid her arms around his neck, breasts warm against his skin even through the fabric of his shirt. “I’ve been wanting this all night,” she said softly, nipping at his mouth. “You won’t disappoint me, will you?”

“Will you be making more jokes at my expense?” he asked coldly. He could still feel the young man watching them. He wished they were having this conversation in private. He wished they weren’t having it at all. 

“I would never do that, my love.” Her fingers played with the hair at the back of his neck, sending shivers through him despite his wounded spirit. “You just get your feelings hurt so easily. You're too sensitive, you know that.” Sliding her hands to his chest, she began to unbutton his shirt. He felt angry at himself for letting her.

“For as easy as you say it is, you seem to enjoy doing it.”

“Don’t be silly, Magnus. I love you. Why would I enjoy hurting you?” She opened his shirt, tugged it off his shoulders, and Magnus let her pull him back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No explicit sexual acts. Camille encourages Magnus to participate in a threesome. He consents only to please her and after some emotionally manipulative coercion.


	6. +1 Alexander

Sipping sweet lime tea in the humid air and golden lights, Magnus wandered through the night market in Chiang Mai and contemplated the iron bed of Procrustes. According to legend, the son of Poseidon forced visitors and passersby to lie upon the bed. If a person was too short to fill its expanse, Procrustes would violently stretch their limbs to its edges. If they were too tall, he would cut those limbs off. 

Magnus discovered a lovely young woman selling mango with sticky rice. Her booth sat in a crowded row by the gilded Buddhist temple outside the city walls. He smiled at her and saw the flush in her cheeks, the way she tucked her long, black hair behind her ears. Their fingers brushed as he handed over his few coins, and she bravely held his gaze, spirited and confident. She inquired about his travels, if he was staying in town tonight. Magnus had always admired boldness.

He wondered what he’d have to lose to fit in her bed.

“I make a distinction between healing and amputation,” Ragnor had said, and years later, with Camille in his past, Magnus thought he finally understood.

With every lover he’d had, he could see it now: He’d had to contort—cut, twist or unnaturally stretch some part of himself—just to fit in their arms. He sliced off his life at the edges over and over again, pulled himself in directions that felt all wrong, just to have a hand to hold and lips to kiss.

Magnus settled on the steps of the temple, surrounded by Thais gathered laughing, talking, and eating. He watched the steady churn of mortality around him as people shopped for hand-made beaded jewelry and brightly painted elephants made of wood. The mango settled sweet and warm on his tongue, and Magnus forced himself to face the yawning emptiness of an eternity alone.

The fear that bubbled in his chest made him want to stride back through the crowd, take the young woman’s hand and invite her back to his hotel room, spread her splendid brown body across the sheets and be whatever she wanted him to be. Hide his power, if she couldn’t handle it. Never tell her of his birth, if it would frighten her. Be nothing and no one, if any of it would make her walk away.

But he didn’t. He swallowed his mouthful of coconut-sweet rice and closed his eyes. He listened to the muddle of voices around him, the pleasant rise and fall of the native language, and breathed in deeply through his nose. He smelled savory chicken satay and pungent durian, the cigarette smoke of the old men seated beside him.

When he opened them again, his eyes fell to the golden garuda along the temple’s base, its crowned, bird-like head and its wings spread wide. _Wide enough to block out the sun_ , Magnus remembered from some old text, _and when they flap, they cause hurricanes._

Magnus stood from the steps and weaved through the vendors and shoppers out of the temple square. He’d eaten only four bites of his mango, so he handed it to a group of boys who eagerly devoured it, pulling sticky fingerfuls to their mouths. 

“Too sweet or not sweet enough?” he heard a voice ask in lilting Thai, and turned to see the young woman from the mango stall. She held a cigarette between her fingers, leaned against the brick with all the heavy limbs of a hard worker on a break.

Magnus watched the corner of her plump lips curve in an appealing smirk, smoke billowing out in a stream of gray, and he felt so tired. Perhaps this is what Ragnor meant by healing, he thought; it began by admitting the wound; and even as he admired her sparkling eyes, Magnus couldn’t deny it anymore. For as lovely as she appeared, she was another rushed amputation when what he needed was time and healing.

“A flaw in the mouth,” Magnus replied, “not in the mouthful.” He smiled at her, a bit sadly, and waded into the crowd filling the street.

Magnus left Thailand and closed himself off. Maybe he would be alone forever, he thought, just as he feared most, but within that yawning emptiness, perhaps he’d also find the space to finally heal, to choose his own bed, to stop cutting away parts of himself for the sake of others who gave nothing. Maybe he’d find the space to grow so tall he would block out the sun. Maybe, with no one’s arms locked tight around him, he would spread his wings and cause hurricanes.

But he left behind a prayer in Chiang Mai, given only in thought as he stood admiring a vendor’s booth full of tiny, identical Buddha statues of gold and red. He didn’t know what he truly believed about higher powers and didn’t expect he could strike a bargain with Buddha at any rate, but he stared down at the figures’ kind, serene expressions and thought, _I promise._

_I promise I’ll stop saying yes to the wrong ones. Just please, please, someday, somehow, please send me one who is right…_

______

As Magnus strolled through the halls of the Institute, he heard the tense voices before he could make out the words. Then he paused in his tracks when he distinctly recognized the sound of an angry Maryse Lightwood. “Well, I suppose when that warlock of yours gets here, we can see what he’d suggest,” she said.

“ _Magnus_ doesn’t owe this Institute anything, you know.” Magnus smiled to hear the strength in Alec’s tone. “He helps us because he believes it will save lives. That’s what matters to him.”

“Oh, of course it is. I’m sure his cooperation has nothing at all to do with maintaining access to you.”

“It doesn’t, Mother. Because I’d keep seeing him even if he never helped us again,” Alec said. “In fact, you know what? I might suggest he do that.”

“Alec,” Maryse said, and Magnus knew the sound of a name being called after someone who was striding out of a conversation. He leapt back down the hallway with a lack of dignity unbecoming a High Warlock and gave the appearance of having just turned the corner, not eavesdropping at all

“Alexander,” he greeted brightly as Alec emerged from the room.

“Hey.” Alec gave a strained smile in greeting. He took Magnus’s hand in his and immediately lead him back the way he’d come. “Come on. I’m giving us the night off.” As they rounded the corner, Magnus glanced back to see Maryse watching them, eyes shrewd and wounded. Just as quickly, he looked away again.

“I hate to bring it up,” he said cautiously, as Alec continued to lead them down the hallway, “but the spell I was to perform—”

“It’s important, I know. But it’s nothing that can’t wait a day.” Alec’s mouth twisted wryly. “Let me have my walk-out moment, Magnus.”

“Of course, of course. I would never deny you a bit of theatricality, my dear.”

Alec kept hold of his hand as they walked—or rather, strode—through the corridors, past other Shadowhunters who turned their heads, or studiously pretended not to notice. Those few who dared to meet his eyes, Alec stared them down, steady and strong.

They decided upon dinner and drinks at his private office at Pandemonium: The comforts of home paired with the energy and illusion of being out. Magnus lead Alec through the rear door, professional distance between them, bypassing the dancing throng until Alec took his hand again. Magnus looked back questioningly and Alec silently pulled him out to the dance floor, into the churning mass of Downworlders in the flashing lights.

He raised an eyebrow, meeting Alec’s commanding gaze as he held his hands and attempted to sway to the music. Alec was a mediocre dancer at best, but Magnus did appreciate his efforts. “Making statements today are we, Alec?”

Alec nodded, color high in his cheeks, jaw tight. “That all right?” he asked.

By way of answer, Magnus dropped his glamour, noting Alec’s sharp intake of breath. Over the centuries, he’d come to love his cat-eyed warlock mark, but he knew how it frightened and intimidated others, how it made it impossible to forget exactly who and what he was. “So long as you know what statement you’re making,” he said.

The seconds felt long as Alec’s gaze stuttered between Magnus’s mouth and his otherworldly stare. Then, his shoulders seemed to broaden and his eyes met Magnus’s boldly. “I do,” he said, voice firm, and the way he stepped close and pressed flush against him, Magnus thought maybe he really did.

He slid a hand to Alec’s back, too low for propriety, body too close to be misinterpreted, and the presumptive head of the New York Institute fraternized with the High Warlock of Brooklyn in the world where Magnus was king. Magnus felt once again taken by Alec Lightwood’s awareness of the subtle political power of personal relationships. The lights slashed and flashed around them, slicing across the crowd in reds, blues, and purples; and the music pounded, slow and sultry, through the building like a pulse. One hand still low at Alec’s waist, Magnus slipped the other into his soft hair and grabbed tightly, right at the base of his skull. Alec’s breath hitched on a gasp, the corner of his mouth lifting in a startled, unconscious smile. Thrilled, Magnus watched the dilation of his eyes, black pupils swallowing hazel. It seemed the heir to the Lightwood legacy rather enjoyed being “Magnus Bane’s boy.” 

In the purring music, Magnus lead Alec’s hips with his own, bodies and mouths temptingly close, but he couldn’t resist spinning him out and bringing him back, just to see Alec laugh, embarrassed and amused. And there, in the blushing laughter, was his Alexander. No political guile, no show for others, just his beautiful archer with his lovely eyes crinkling as he grinned. Alec was having _fun_ , and seeing it reminded Magnus of just how long it had been for both of them.

Drama and danger suffused their lives and probably always would, but it was different now, an undercurrent of something steady that hadn’t been there before. They had started under such intense circumstances, their feelings for each other forged through what felt painfully like a fight for Alec’s life. And now here, so many days and nights and intense circumstances later, the first text message Magnus received from Alec this morning had been a picture of an interesting, iridescent bug he’d seen on his run and then another that said, “I broke my shoelace.” Magnus had responded with a frowning emoji and then asked if he should wear burgundy or blue. Alec chose blue. Smiling, Magnus swayed him in his arms and savored how, beyond all the excitement and attraction, Alec had slowly and steadily become his best friend, too. 

Laughter still bubbling out with his breath, Alec gripped tightly to Magnus’s shoulders to prevent any further attempts to fling him about. “I don’t know much about clothes, but this looks all wrong here,” he said over the music as they moved together slowly, uncaring about the new song’s riotous rhythm. He tugged at the cravat knotted at Magnus’s throat.

“Well, one does not dress for the New York Institute like it’s a rave,” Magnus said.

“Good choice, probably.” Alec left the cravat loose around his neck, then set to unbuttoning the high collar of his elegant blue shirt. “But you look really hot when you dress for raves.” Seemingly mesmerized by Magnus’s bared throat, Alec pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and attacked the next button.

Magnus peered down as Alec unfastened a third button, then a fourth, spreading the fabric as he went, his palm warm against his skin. His long fingers settled Magnus’s dangling necklaces against his chest before sliding to the fifth button. “Do you plan to undress me in front of everyone, Alexander? That would certainly be a decisive statement.”

“No,” Alec said, chuckling. He lifted his arms back to Magnus’s shoulders. “I can control myself, I promise.” He winked, fingers playing with the hair at his neck, and the kiss he gave Magnus managed to be both chaste and sizzling. 

Magnus breathed out a happy hum against his lips. “Please don’t make it a habit,” he said. “Would you care to make the statement of retiring to my private office? I’m hungry.”

“Me too. I’ll eat whatever you order.”

Magnus kissed Alec again, soft and quick, then waved to the bartender, creating a list of drinks and food to be served to them shortly. Taking Alec’s hand himself this time, he lead him back to their original destination.

An hour or two later, music and voices hummed lowly outside the walls and they relaxed on the sofa, picking at the last of their meals and sipping from cocktails brought from the bar. The chandelier cast drifting silver lights across sea-blue walls, like they were underwater, separate and protected from the rest of the world. It had been a wonderful evening, all the more so for having been unexpected. Alec’s head rested on his shoulder, and Magnus twined the short dark threads of his hair around his fingers. 

“Thank you for doing this,” Alec said, breaths ghosting across Magnus’s bare chest where he’d not done up a single button. “It helps me, to remember what we’re fighting for.”

In that exact moment, Magnus didn’t know if he meant fighting demons, Valentine, the Clave, or his mother—or maybe all of them at once, which was often the case—but he hazarded a guess. “Keep hope, my dear,” he said softly. “She may yet come around.”

“At this point, I don’t see how,” Alec said.

“Because she’ll want _you_ around.” Magnus smiled, and it felt like a slow slice to his heart. “In her own way, she’s fighting for you.”

Alec lifted his head and Magnus withdrew his stroking fingers. “She’s fighting _me_ ,” he said.

“That’s the distinction she doesn’t understand yet.”

Alec’s brow furrowed. “Why do you defend her?”

“Because you only have one mother.” Magnus didn’t like how raggedly that sentence had exited his throat, and he didn’t like the startled, worried look Alec was giving him now. How quickly he could shatter a moment; the truly amazing Magnus Bane. He cursed himself silently for letting his old wounds infect the most peaceful time they’d had together in weeks. “That’s not to say,” he continued, leaning away from Alec to pour himself a glass of scotch, “that my compassion is without limits.”

“I’ve never asked you...” Alec began, and Magnus took a quick swallow of the burning alcohol; he felt quite certain he wasn’t ready to have started this. “…about her.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Drink in one hand, he lifted the other to adjust the silver cuff on his ear. “Well, that’s not true. There’s quite a lot to tell, but none of it pleasant. Some of it you already know.”

“Some.” Alec turned himself, sitting side by side with him. “But not—not much about her. Not from you.”

Magnus was sure the files at the Institute mentioned her. His stomach churned to think of how it had been written up by the previous generations of Shadowhunters. Perhaps she’d been admired. “You’ve heard the phrase ‘death before dishonor’?” he said. “There you have it. Though in her case, it was more ‘death before demonic child.’ She decided she’d rather have a noose around her neck than me in her life.”

He let the sentences drop and stab from his tongue, every word a lance. But at the same moment, Magnus realized he’d never _said it_ to another person. Not aloud, not directly, not to Camille or even Ragnor. He’d hinted around it, talked about the hurt and the loss, but he’d never let himself share the words as jagged and butchering as they felt inside.

Alec’s hand settled low on his back and Magnus didn’t know if he wanted to shake it off or curl into it. But Alec made the decision for him.

“Hey,” he said, and tugged at Magnus’s waist. Magnus resisted, only for a moment, and only because he wanted it so much he felt he couldn’t breathe. He took another bracing mouthful of scotch and stopped fighting Alec’s gentle coaxing. His turn was a bit sudden, a bit frantic, but Alec just moved with him, laid back on the couch and pulled Magnus against him. They shifted their legs until they were comfortably pressed close and entangled. Alec’s arms wrapped around him, while Magnus’s own stayed close to his body, fingers just against Alec’s chest. He felt embarrassingly small and fragile— _a pitiful kitten_. The music outside continued to thump like a heartbeat through the wall.

“Can I touch your hair?” Alec asked, his fingers brushing the shorn edges.

Magnus snorted a tense laugh against his sternum. “Yes, of course.”

“Hey, don’t laugh. It looks so nice. I don’t know what you have in it and I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You nearly stripped me naked on the dance floor. By all means, mess it up.” Magnus rubbed his cheek against the starchy fabric of Alec’s shirt. “And thank you for asking.” He closed his eyes as strong, calloused archer’s fingers slid through the strands of his hair. Slowly, he relaxed, muscles loosening that he hadn’t realized were tight, and Alec restored the peace Magnus had broken.

When he was honest with himself, Magnus knew he envied Alec his mother’s stubbornness. She gave her son a force to fight against; with every argument, Alec grew stronger in himself, more certain of who he was and who he wanted to be. Maryse gave voice to the world’s hatred. 

Magnus’s mother had abandoned him to it. 

“I can still remember her hugging me,” Magnus confessed to the thrumming silence. “I’ve forgotten whole decades, but I can’t ever forget that.” 

Alec’s hand paused, thumb stroking the back of Magnus’s neck before continuing its soft path through his hair. “Is that...Do you remember a lot about her?”

So, Magnus told him about the beach near their home and the little foot path they would take to get there, how they could hear the clacking of the bamboo trees when the wind blew, and how small his hands had looked in hers when he was a boy. He told him about the songs she sang and the smell of her soto ayam over the fire. When he ran out of the memories that haunted him, he dug deeper and tried to recall others he’d forgotten because telling Alec didn’t make them feel small. Telling Alec made them feel real.

“I keep thinking she must have felt so scared and alone,” he murmured at last, and Magnus realized he had Alec’s shirt gripped tightly in his fist, _needy, clinging_. He loosened his grasp. As soon as he did, Alec lifted his free hand, sliding it over Magnus’s fingers as if offering to let Magnus grip him instead. Magnus stared at their joined hands, the elegant length of Alec’s fingers, the half-moons of his fingernails. Alec’s thumb stroked his fingertips as though he could feel their magical spark, and inside, Magnus felt another key slide into place.

Early on, he’d confessed to Alec that he’d unlocked something in him, but that had only been the door Magnus knew he’d locked. The longer they knew one another, it seemed Alec was wandering his way through him, giving him things he’d not known he needed, unlocking every door, chest, and hidden chamber until Magnus didn’t know what shape he really was. Being with Alec felt like a magic even Magnus couldn’t explain, a connection that made him feel larger than his bones; towering, endless, and woven into the very threads of the universe; yet as intimate as the rough callous on Alec’s thumb against his palm. Magnus felt tears rise in his eyes.

Alec’s other hand continued its slow slide up and down Magnus’s back, warm through the silken fabric of his shirt. Outside their sea-scattered walls, the Pandemonium crowd whooped and shouted with the music.

“I feel sorry for her,” Alec said at last, and so very softly. “She missed out on knowing you.”

Magnus breathed in the scent of him. “And your mother may need to lose that privilege with you someday,” he said, voice thready.

“But not yet. I understand what you’re saying.” Alec’s words rumbled against Magnus’s cheek where it was pressed to his chest. “But if she makes me choose, I’m choosing you.” Magnus’s stomach swooped like he’d felt a sudden drop. “I need you to know that,” Alec said, firm, like Magnus might argue. His drifting hand did come to a stop then, in the middle of Magnus’s back. His other still held his fingers warmly.

Magnus let out a long sigh, forcing a lightness he didn’t feel. “I’m a mess, Alec,” he said, pressing a kiss to Alec’s hand still closed around his. He blinked away his tears and realized he’d never restored the glamour hiding his mark since he’d let it fall on the dance floor; it hadn’t even occurred to him to do it. He lifted his head, propping his chin on Alec’s sternum to gaze up at him. “How do you always know what to do with me?”

Alec gave him a confused, searching look that Magnus hadn’t seen for a long time. “I love you,” he said, his shrug hindered somewhat by the couch. “I just—I try to love you.” 

And there it was, the shrugging love confession that Magnus hadn’t known he needed. Said like a statement of fact, certain and undeniable, like maybe he’d meant it the first time he said it and it didn’t matter that Magnus hadn’t said it back—maybe didn’t even matter if Magnus didn’t _feel_ it back—because Alec loved him anyway. Magnus inhaled sharply and it felt like the first full breath he’d taken since his mother died. His head spun, dizzy.

Misunderstanding his silence, Alec went on, “I don’t always—I mean, you have to admit, I’ve gotten it wrong as many times as I’ve gotten it right.”

Magnus looked at his beautiful archer, his Shadowhunter, his angel, _his friend_ and remembered confusion and hurt and misunderstandings, and then a perfect kiss at a broken wedding. He remembered dozens of wrenching disagreements about mortality, days of separation and distance; he remembered fevered reunions, aching, wrenching anxiety, and admissions that all boiled down to _I don’t ever want to be the source of your pain_. “Not really,” he said.

He pulled his hand from Alec’s only to use it to brace himself and raise up enough to loom over him, eyes on his. “I love you, too,” Magnus whispered. Alec’s face brightened, purely happy, but he didn’t seem surprised, so Magnus thought he must have been getting something right, too. Alec’s gaze slid to his mouth, his head lifting, and Magnus gave him what he wanted, what they both wanted: a kiss to seal the vow.

“I love you,” Magnus said again, gently against his lips, and he hoped that Alec believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine Magnus and Alec danced to [Elizaveta - Trap (J Paul Mix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QlOX7M_6Bu4).
> 
> My thanks to all who joined me on this little journey. Thank you for all the great comments and kudos. I absolutely loved the experience of writing this, and it meant so much to have people to share it with. <3


End file.
